Split Images Page 5

He said, "Soon as you try--that's what I was talking about before, in the courtroom, and I asked you to bear with me. We have to just get through this first part."

  She said, "What I need is a drink."

  "You want a drink," Bryan said. "You don't need a drink. That's like saying you need help, you can't handle it yourself."

  "Jesus, you're full of advice, aren't you?" She was loosening up. "What do you read, selfimprovement books?"

  He held up his hand, looking off, and said, "Marcie, bring us a couple Jack Daniels on ice, please. Doubles." He said to Angela, "You want a double?"

  She said, "Yes, I want a double. I don't need one, you understand. I want one."

  "There," Bryan said, "you got that taken care of.

  What else's bothering you?"

  She said, "I didn't think you'd be a smart-ass."

  Bryan said, "Look, if you want, you sit here and I'll sit there. There'll be times when I'm a little tense and you'll give me a poke, straighten me out. It's like when you're taking yourself too seriously, catch yourself becoming indignant over little shitty things. You know what I mean? Or you get very dramatic about something. What do you do?"

  "I don't know," Angela said. "What?"

  "You give yourself a kick in the ass."

  She said, "You're a lot of fun, Bryan."

  He said, "You know the first thing I looked at as we came out of court? I looked to see if you were pigeon-toed. My wife was pigeon-toed. She'd walk around the house with this grim look on her face.

  By the time we knew we were splitting up, all she had to do was walk in the room, I had to get out.

  See, it wasn't that she was pigeon-toed, I don't mean to make fun of her. It was the tight-assed way she walked that to me represented her personality.

  She never came up for air."

  There was a silence between them, an eye of stillness within the barroom's scattered bits of noise.

  Angela said, "I feel a lot better, Bryan. I don't know what you're talking about, but I feel better."

  He said, "Good. You want to go to Florida?"

  She said, almost sadly, "I thought you were gonna be--this'll probably sound dumb--but I thought you were gonna be, well, romantic. I don't know why."

  "I am romantic. Why do you think I'm asking you to go to Florida?"

  She said, "God, a homicide cop. Why couldn't you be, I don't know, something a little more sensitive?"

  "Because," Bryan said, "you came to me with a guy you say likes to kill people. If he likes it, he must've done it. So here you are. You take up with a homicide cop, that's what you get. Not much apparent sensitivity, but all kinds of expert advice."

  She was stiffening as he spoke, looking right at him.

  "I didn't take up with you."

  "How about, sought me out?"

  "It's not why I wanted to meet you."

  "Your indignation is showing," Bryan said.

  "How many people has he killed?"

  "Two that I know of," Angela said.

  Robbie said to the waitress, "Darling, don't worry about it. Bring us another draft and a very extradry Beefeater and all's forgiven."

  Walter said, "Hey, and a ashtray."

  "One cigarette," Robbie said to Walter.

  Walter looked puzzled. "I thought you meant while we're here. You said I could smoke, right?"

  "Walter, you went through an ordeal today.

  You're a little uptight, okay, I said you could have a cigarette. One. And that's the last one I ever want to see you smoke."

  Walter was holding the Camel close to his mouth. Christ, wondering now if he should wait.

  Drink half the beer first.

  "Mr. Daniels, they got me by the balls. I need something like to hold onto. I can't just sit."

  "I understand that."

  "Money I saved, took me twenty years--I'll flush it down the toilet before I give it to a fucking con." He brought out his green Bic and lighted the cigarette.

  "Walter, I was there. I saw part of the show."

  "You were there? " Exhaling cigarette smoke.

  "The first thing you have to do is fire your lawyer."

  "Eddie?"

  "Walter, Eddie's pathetic. He should've objected to everything Randall said. I'm not a lawyer. I know that much. Walter, Randall and the judge play handball together at the DAC. Randall was the first colored guy I ever saw there as a guest. I looked, I thought one of the waiters was taking a shower . . . He even has a tan line."

  Walter wasn't listening. "You were in the courtroom?"

  "For a little while. I left right behind Curtis."

  "I didn't see you."

  "I know you didn't." Robbie looked toward the front, to the first table. "That homicide detective had your full attention. What I want to know is, what's he doing with Angie?"

  "Mr. Daniels," Walter said, "the trial doesn't come up for a couple months. All right, I got some time. If you got another lawyer, or you have any suggestions at all, that's fine with me."

  Robbie was thoughtful. "The mother could probably be bought for a few grand. But you've got Randall to contend with. He'll clean you out, accept a settlement for about a half-million from the city and take a third of it off the top."

  "Jesus," Walter said.

  "I told you before, your only alternative is to do something about the witnesses."

  Walter squinted through his cigarette smoke.

  "I'm not sure what you mean, do something."

  "I rode down in the elevator with Curtis. He doesn't say much, does he? Seems very distrustful."

  "He's been in solitary half his fucking life. He doesn't know how to talk," Walter said, "till you get him in court. Then you can't fucking shut him up."

  Robbie was looking toward the front again.

  "I'm sure a good defense lawyer can handle the STRESS stuff when it comes up. Make it sound like the homicide guy has some kind of a personal grudge. Discredit his testimony. But Curtis--especially if you have a predominantly black jury, which is quite likely--Curtis's something else."

  Walter said, "You aren't kidding he's something else."

  "What was he in Jackson for?"

  "Shit, armed robbery, assault. Grand theft auto, I don't know how many counts they had. He was up for second-degree murder, shot and killed a guy in a bar, they send him to the Forensic Center. He gets cured of whatever suppose to be disturbing him, they let him out. He gets picked up on a gun charge and back he goes to Jackson for two years.

  He's a fucking nut."

  "Now residing at 721 Glynn Court," Robbie said. "Member of the Black Demons, whoever they are."

  "How'd you know that?" Walter seemed amazed.

  "Walter"--like talking to a child--"I was in the courtroom."

  "Yeah, that's right." Walter took a last drag on what was left of the Camel and stubbed it out. "I appreciate whatever you can do for me, Mr. Daniels."

  Robbie said, "I've got to take care of you, Walter. I need you for the big one."

  "Yeah, that's right." He sounded tired now.

  Robbie studied him: heavy shoulders sagging, deep-set eyes staring at his green lighter. "Walter?

  Would you like one more cigarette?"

  Walter looked amazed again, then grateful, little eyes glistening now. "You serious?"

  "Hey," Robbie said, "I'm not such a bad guy to work for, am I?"

  Bryan said, "Let me get it straight. The burglar was outside the house when Robbie shot him?"

  "Yeah, out by the patio," Angela said. "But I don't think you'd call him a real burglar."

  "No, I guess he had a few things to learn," Bryan said. He sipped his Jack Daniels. Angela gave him a look but didn't say anything for a moment.

  "The second one happened nine years ago--I found out about it while I was researching him, getting some background. At a place called St. Clair Flats."

  "That's not far from here."

  "Robbie was duck hunting with an executive from one of the car companies, I think Chrysler . . ."r />
  Bryan was nodding. "Yeah, I forgot all about that. Nine years ago, it seems longer. They were in a duck blind and the guy from Chrysler stood up when he shouldn't have and Robbie blew the top of his head off"--nodding again, remembering- "with a Browning twelve-gauge shotgun. Goldinlaid, it must've cost him seven or eight thousand."

  She said, "Were you in on the investigation?"

  "No, that's a different county, out of our jurisdiction. I wasn't in Homicide then anyway."

  "But you remember details."

  He said, "I remember the kind of shotgun, but not the name of the guy from Chrysler." He tried to think of it, but finally shook his head. "Well, you've got justifiable homicide in one case, accidental in the other. What makes you think he likes it?"

  Angela held her glass poised, off the table. She said, "Ask him. Here he comes."

  Robbie was making his way through the tables, glancing around at first, but now with a whimsical half-smile, head cocked, his eyes on Angela and no one else. Walter trailed behind.

  Robbie said, "Could it be? It is! How're you, Angie? Good to see you, tiger." Extending his hand and holding hers as he gave Bryan a look of mild concern. "If this lady's interviewing you, lieutenant, let me give you a word of warning. Three words to be exact. Watch your ass." Then the grin.

  "Hi, I'm Robbie Daniels."

  Bryan thought of a television commercial. "Hi, I'm Joseph Cotten." He didn't smile. He gave the handshake enough but not all he had. He liked the guy's sport coat. He didn't like his maize and blue Michigan tie, the way it was tied in a careless knot, the label side of the narrow end showing, All Silk.

  He had met millionaires before, when he drove for the mayor and wore black tie with the black mayor and stayed close to him at functions, Bryan slick and official in his city-bought tux. (A deputy chief called him sir at the benefits and openings until the deputy chief saw him at 1300, on the fifth floor, and found out Bryan was a sergeant on loan from Homicide.) He liked the mayor--enjoyed hearing him shift as smooth as a smile from street talk to official pronouncement--but had been indifferent to the indifferent millionaires he'd met. He would be indifferent to this one, too; though not for the same reason. He resented this one, the uncombed hair, the careless tie, the patter, the same way he resented wavy-haired gospel preachers on television who never stopped smiling.

  Robbie was acting but didn't know it, used to playing the role. Making everything look easy.

  Talking about George Hamilton now.

  George Hamilton in town yesterday. Doing a Diamond Mortgage commercial.

  George Hamilton's tan that you could kid him about all you wanted but was superb, 100 percent.

  "Angie, I wished you'd called."

  Angela said, "Why?"

  "Hey, I've got to tell you this," Robbbie said.

  Glancing around, "Walter, come here." Walter edging over, not looking directly at anyone as Robbie put an arm around Walter's rigid shoulders, a possession, though it was meant as an act of fellowship. "My star driver and head of security, Walter Kouza." Standing there in his gray double-knit suit, maroon shirt and tie.

  Angela said, with innocence, "Why're you feeling insecure?"

  "It's a long story," Robbie said. "I've had a couple of threats lately, in Florida. I didn't tell you about them, I don't think they amount to anything . . . But this is good. Walter's driving, we pick George up out in West Bloomfield where they're shooting--we're gonna have dinner at the Chop House and then drop George off at the Ponch. So we're in the car at least, altogether, forty-five minutes, right? We're talking, he's telling me about his new picture--it's about Zorro, but he plays him as a gay, if you can imagine a swishy George Hamilton who's had to have had more broads than any guy I know of"--his voice dropped--"with the possible exception of one guy." Robbie paused.

  Bryan watched him; saw his expression go dead, then brighten again, immediately.

  "You know, with the swords and all, the gay blade? We're talking about Hollywood, we're talking about Palm Beach, Dina, Bert . . . Angie, you know. We drop George off at the Ponch, we're pulling away and Walter goes, honest to God, 'Who was that?' " Robbie timed it, giving them a wide-eyed Johnny Carson look. "I said, 'That was George Hamilton.' Walter goes--are you ready?

  'Who's George Hamilton.' " Still wide eyed.

  Then grinning, looking at Walter fondly as he gave the rigid shoulders a squeeze. "We're not laughing at you, Walter, it's just an improbably funny situation."

  No one was laughing at anything. Walter tried to smile but failed. Bryan watched Robbie raise his arm over Walter's head and bring it down, saying he had to run. "But listen"--looking at Angela--

  "am I gonna see you?"

  "I'll call you," Angela said.

  "Okay, but better make it in the next few days or I won't be here. Do you need a car?"

  "I'm just hanging out for the time being," Angela said. "At the Ponchartrain. Is that by any chance the Ponch?"

  Robbie said, "What else? But if you need wheels, I mean even right now, I'm gonna be with my lawyers the next couple of hours, but Walter's free.

  He'll take you wherever you want to go. I can't see you tonight, Angie, but give me a call tomorrow."

  Bryan said, "Would he mind driving us out to my place?" He felt the toe of Angela's cowboy boot poke at his leg. "I have to get my car."

  "Sure, anywhere." Robbie gesturing, why not?

  Then frowning, puzzled. "Don't they give police lieutenants cars these days?"

  "Not since the price of gas went up," Bryan said.

  "No more driving home in blue Plymouths."

  Robbie seemed interested. "How do you get around?"

  "Well, I usually drive my own car down and park it," Bryan said. "This morning, one of my squad picked me up. We had to go to a scene."

  Robbie was nodding as he listened. "Fascinating. You mean a murder scene. I'd love to watch an investigation sometime. Is that possible?"

  "I suppose so," Bryan said, "if you're interested in homicide."

  He felt the toe of Angela's boot again as Robbie said, "I am, indeed."

  They rode in his Cadillac Fleetwood behind darktinted glass. Walter, silent, taking them north on Woodward Avenue. Angela looking at the city beyond downtown for the first time, not asking what's that or that until they passed between impressive stone structures, the main library and the art institute, and Bryan told her what they were, pointing out Rodin's The Thinker in front of the museum, saying that was it until they spotted the golden tower of the Fisher Building. Angela said, well, it's bigger than Tucson.

  They didn't ask each other questions or loosen up and say all the things they wanted to say. Walter was right there: rigid, the man never moved, shoulders hunched over the wheel, shark-fin pompadour glistening, stray hairs standing like antennae.

  Bryan said, "Walter, you like working for Robbie?"

  Walter didn't answer.

  "I drove for a guy one time. Followed him around, got to go to parties. You go to parties, Walter?"

  No answer.

  "I'll bet you see some interesting things, huh?"

  Angela was making sad faces, in sympathy. She leaned against Bryan and whispered, "Leave the poor guy alone."

  Bryan said, "I want to but I can't." His gaze moved to the side window. "You're in Highland Park now. Coming up on the old Ford plant."

  Angela said, "Nice."

  Bryan said, "Walter, I was wondering, how come you don't have on your chauffeur's uniform?'

  Walter didn't answer.

  "I forgot," Bryan said, "you had to go to court today. That the reason?"

  Walter's hand moved, mashing the horn to blast a car pulling away from the curb.

  Angela hunched her shoulders and Bryan poked her with an elbow. They could see Walter's hands, thick, padded, knuckles like smooth stones, gripping the steering wheel.

  "Left before you get to Palmer Park, Walter. You got to go up past the light and come back. Then along the park over to Merton."

&nb
sp; "It's looking better," Angela said as they passed Moorish and Art Deco apartment buildings among lawns and old trees, Walter hunching forward now.

  "Up there on the left, Walter, the yellow brick with the front that looks like a mosque." He said to Angela, "Right across from the synagogue. We've got black people and gays of all colors. It's an interesting neighborhood."

  Walter braked abruptly and sat looking straight ahead.

  Getting out, Bryan said, "Walter, I'm sorry you feel the way you do. But I'll say this. You're a good driver and I think you'll always find work."

  Walter waited until they were going up the walk.

  "Hey, wise-ass."

  Bryan touched Angela's arm. They looked back to see Walter with his elbow on the windowsill, a lone figure in that dark expanse of limousine.

  Bryan said, "You talking to me?"

  Walter said, "I'll tell you something, wise-ass, you think you're so fucking clever. You're bush.

  Homicide lieutenant, all that goes with it, you're still bush. The biggest thing ever happens to you, some jig on Twelfth Street shoots another jig's been fucking his common-law wife, or you get a twentybuck hooker slashed to death, tits cut off in some alley, all that street shit. Floater comes up at Waterworks Park, makes your fucking day. That's what you're in, buddy, and that's as class as it gets."

  Bryan waited a moment.

  "Compared to what?"

  Walter hesitated, still aroused, almost eager, but holding back. "Get your head out of the garbage, maybe you'll see how it's done in the majors, wiseass."

  The limousine moved off abruptly, wheels throwing bits of gravel, engine revs rising, then fading down the street. They watched the car until it was out of sight.

  Angela said, "I'm beginning to see through you, Bryan. You're not your everyday wise-ass; you use it with a purpose. Put the needle in and get 'em to talk."

  They started up the walk again, Bryan taking out his keys. He felt pretty good: his interest aroused to speculate and wonder, without having to worry about it, feel a responsibility. He said, "That's the first time in his life Walter's ever used any restraint, held back. What do you think he was trying to tell us?"

  Angela waited as he unlocked the front door and held it open. "I think he was showing off, trying to one-up you. Behind the wheel of his Cadillac limo."